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Insider trading

Created:
12 September 2008
Written by:
Bernard Jones

FRIDAY 25 JULY: Blue-blooded broker shock

Can hardly believe the Telegraph this morning. Malcolm Calvert, 63, of Cobham Surrey, a very distinguished looking retired director of blue-blooded brokers Cazenove, has been accused of insider trading. This isn't some greasy barrow-boy cum derivatives trader from the East End of which one could believe such things. There he is, looking like a retired wing commander with his four-button blazer and cuff-links, fending off cameras as he leaves the court. What kind of world do we live in now? 'My word is my bond' seems long forgotten. Or perhaps I am just a little envious that in my entire career at the MoD, aiding the procurement of ordnance and equipment for our armed forces, no one ever offered me an insider tidbit with which I could feather my nest. I shall follow this case with the same energy and focus that Eunice did for the Max Mosley sadomasochistic orgy trial.

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Back in Lemon Curdistan, I log on to the PC and see something very irritating. Rentokil has issued another profit warning. I was forced to close out my short position on the shares several weeks ago when they stubbornly refused to fall after the last profit warning, and here they are down at 71p with a new one. Why is my timing so abysmal? I think the God of Mammon has it in for me.

Elevenses: I notice that the Hornby drawer has again been ransacked by intruders. The last two lemon curd tarts have disappeared, and instead there is a small slice of cake. Now this is very suspicious. Eunice never leaves me cake. This object, in clingfilm on a paper plate, appears to be a little more orange than ordinary cake and there are numerous dark brown nutty bits in it. There is a kind of icing too, which appears to be good news, unless its merely some cunningly disguised plastic explosive. I think I'll have to send a sample off to Defra first before I let it into the food chain. I hold up a small sample to Prescott, the suede covered pig. "What do you think, eh? Is it poison or not?"

Eunice walks in just as I'm having this conference.

"Aha. Talking to stuffed animals! I could have you sectioned for less."

"What is this stuff?" I say, holding up the paper plate.

"It's a present from Irmgard."

I drop the plate like it was scalding. I clearly recall how last year Eunice's left-leaning friend fell 90 degrees further than usual after eating a Tesco tahini roulade that I had bought.

"It's alright, Bernard, she has forgiven you."

I inspected the cake again. I had not realised that Irmgard's life-threatening allergy to sesame seeds would have any relevance to tahini. I still suspected the vegan harridan would be seeking revenge, in a time and a manner of her choosing. This could be it.

"It's carrot cake with fennel and jute seeds and tofu icing."

"Well, you have to hand it to her," I said. "You'd never guess. It almost looks edible."

"It is edible. Bernard, you are so suspicious. Irmgard has cooked for some very big names you know."

"Ah yes, Alexander Litvinenko, Viktor Yushchenko, Rasputin, Snow White..."

"Bernard, it's extremely good for you. It's got a week's supply of every essential mineral..."

"Ah yes, I'm sure each slice contains 100 per cent of the recommended daily allowance of arsenic, cadmium and dioxin."

At which point, Eunice grabbed the now rather battered cake, whipped off the cling film and ate it herself.

SATURDAY 26 JULY: Debenhams card missing

Eunice returns flustered from a truncated shopping trip.

"Bernard, you wouldn't have seen the Debenhams store card would you? I couldn't find it anywhere."

"Why would I know where it is? I never use it," I reply. My secret, of course, is that the said item lies in 20 pieces on council landfill somewhere as part of clandestine Jones family budget control. However, if I thought that this would curtail Eunice's retail activities I was wrong. She heaved four full carrier bags onto the kitchen table and shook her head.

"It was very embarrassing. I had to pay cash, so I confined myself to the essentials," she says.

I look through just one bag and find a new definition of essential: A cut glass olive oil 'drizzler' (£16.99), a shape-sorter thing for measuring spaghetti portions (£6 from Le Vrai Gourmet), a granite mortar and pestle for £20, a plastic spear thing for disembowelling lemons (£2.50, and called a 'lemon reamer'.)

"Can I ask what it was you discarded as inessential?" I said.

"I didn't get the a new toaster," she said.

Typical. It was the one thing we actually needed.

MORE FROM THE SAGE OF SUBURBIA...

Read more of Bernard's musings at his IC home page.

Write to him at bernard.jones@ft.com

You can buy the two Bernard Jones books at a discount in the IC bookstore.

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